I waited there for several monts listening to the distant sound of cars on the streets and hills and then a passing elevated train and then I walked up the steep street that led to the steps which led to the church and walked inside.
I counted three other people inside the church, all ancient-looking women kneeling alone and saying their rosaries, the beads dangling through their fingers. I considered getting up to go before mass began but thought silence and ritual felt comforting.
As I waited I prayed but my thoughts were difficult. I thought of
Mr. Hennessy and tried to put him out of my mind. I stared up at a station of the cross above my head lit by the purple and light of stained glass: it was an image of Christ falling with the cross upon his back. I kept my eyes on the engraving and I tried to pray. A swell of organ resounded through the church. Turning I saw the priest I had seen on the street. As he turned to look at the tiny congregation I think he saw me. I thought of leaving but stayed on.